


Remember, You Chose This

by Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Based on that photoshoot they just released, Brief Fluff, Emotional Hurt, Emotions, Flashbacks, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Deserves Better, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Mentioned Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sad, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Waiting, Witchmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name
Summary: A memory. The early days. Before djinns or banquets or witches or dragons.It’s just Geralt and Jaskier. Just them and the songs Jaskier’s starting to write. Just the hope of friendship and something more than Geralt’s begrudging toleration.<>There was a time when Geralt waited for Jaskier. Now, Jaskier waits for Geralt-- even if there's no certainty he'll appear.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 97
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry





	Remember, You Chose This

**Author's Note:**

> As someone who's terrified of the "hurt no comfort" tag, it's pretty fucking bold of me to use it as a tag. I apologize in advance.

_ A memory. The early days. Before djinns or banquets or witches or dragons. _

_ It’s just Geralt and Jaskier. Just them and the songs Jaskier’s starting to write. Just the hope of friendship and something more than Geralt’s begrudging toleration. _

_ Jaskier wakes in an inn to the sound of a door shutting. Briefly, he hears snatches of conversations leaking in from the hall— then, nothing. _

_ Silence drags him out of bed quicker than any fire or danger. Silence means he’s alone. Silence means the witcher’s done the one thing he’s always threatened— he’s left Jaskier behind, hurried off while Jaskier slept.  _

_ He can’t have made it far, not if the door just shut, but Jaskier has to pack and dress, combing his hair with one hand as he shoves his clothes into his bag with another. It’s a mess and his doublet’s buttoned wrong, but he’s wasted enough time already. He can’t let Geralt leave without him. He can’t be left behind, forgotten, discarded. _

_ Jaskier runs out of the room without checking to be sure he’s collected everything, slamming the door behind him. Strangers narrow their eyes at him— and, no doubt, he looks like some criminal on the run— but he pays them no mind. He needs to find Geralt, he needs to make it to Geralt, he needs to— _

_ Outside the inn, a familiar brown horse. By the horse, a white-haired witcher with his eyes shut and his face towards the sun. He peeks one eye open when Jaskier stops before him, huffing for breath. _

_ “Oh,” he says. “I thought you might have slept longer.” _

_ “You—” Jaskier’s still recovering from the fact that he won’t have to chase Geralt down. “What?” _

_ “You stayed up late performing last night,” Geralt explains, opening his other eye. His gaze pins Jaskier in place. “Usually, you sleep half the day away.” _

_ And usually Geralt shoves him out of bed, threatens to leave if he isn’t ready within the hour. _

_ “Didn’t want to slow you down,” Jaskier says instead, his lips twitching in confusion. Is this a test? A trick? Jaskier feels wrong-footed as he navigates Geralt’s words. _

_ “We don’t have anywhere to be yet,” Geralt says, and the plural pronoun sounds so nice. “I would have waited.” _

_ Jaskier’s mouth decides on a smile. Geralt’s words echo in his ears. _

_ Geralt would have waited. _

<><><> <><><> <><><>

He almost misses it as he’s walking down the mountain. A small home— stone, abandoned, fading into the grass and weeds around it. It’s near the trail, a funny little thing, and Jaskier knows it’s the kind of place Geralt would typically make camp. 

_We’d be protected from the wind by the house_ , he’d say, _and it’s not like anyone’s coming back to check on it._

The sound of Geralt’s voice is still strong in Jaskier’s ears.

There’s the faint smell of ash in the air, the rich undercurrents of soil and plants. Jaskier rests his lute case against the stone wall of the small building, wincing as dust shudders away from the rocks. It seems he truly does ruin everything he—

No. Can’t let his mind go there. Pull the lute out, tuck his notebook on top of his knee as he sits amongst the thin flowers and bushes. His mouth is dry, coated with the words he swallowed as Geralt turned away, but he sings to himself, all the same. 

Birds flee from the trees but not before cooing or cawing or joining the gentle melody he strums. For a moment, he wonders if it means bandits or monsters are coming— he still recalls the hirrika and the reavers— but the press of his lute strings calms him enough to distract him from such thoughts. 

This would be a nice place to camp, he thinks. They’d build a fire there, a few paces away from the steps leading to nowhere. And they’d rest their bedrolls here, half hidden amongst the stone structures left standing with no roofs. Geralt would like the distance between them and the trail, and Jaskier’s sure there are plenty of animals for him to hunt. 

Though, it won’t be long before the sky is dark. Geralt should hurry so they can have dinner on time. Geralt should hurry before it grows too late to start a fire.

Jaskier shifts. 

Geralt would wait for him. It's just his turn to wait for Geralt.

Maybe, if Geralt arrives soon, they’ll reconcile and travel the rest of the way together. Perhaps there’ll be no need for camp; Geralt will know another shortcut and they’ll find themselves at another inn. There was mud tangled at the edges of Geralt’s hair last time Jaskier saw him. They could take a break, take a bath. Perhaps he’d let Jaskier brush the tangles out, just like he used to.

Jaskier’s doublet trembles from the mountain breeze. Somewhere in the distance, he can smell that someone’s started a fire. 

Other campers. That’s fine. So long as he and Geralt camp together— whenever Geralt appears— they won’t need to worry about whoever else has decided to stop near them. 

Jaskier offers his music to the wind. It blows back up the path; he wonders if the sound will last long enough for Geralt to hear it.

Further down the trail, dwarves laugh and joke about the treasures they’ll receive. Horses kick up the smell of grass and mud. 

Jaskier shuts his eyes against it, waiting for the familiar weight of leather and sweat. He presses his head back into the wall behind him, choking on his own lyrics.

_ I’m weak, my love, and I am— _

It’s growing late when Jaskier opens his eyes, darkness painting itself across the edges of the sky like some wayward god’s spilled drink. He could write hundreds of ballads about this sight alone, songs about fate and death and

Destiny

Heartbreak

Geralt will come, won’t he? Surely, so long as Jaskier waits—

Jaskier’s song bleeds into the sky, changing color with the sunset. No words, this time, only discordant notes and hopeful glances at each shape passing him by on the road. 

None of them look like Geralt.

He’s not waiting for an apology or a confession that Geralt knows he was wrong. He doesn’t need pity or sympathy or anything in between. He just— He just  _ wants _ . 

He wants to feel something other than the growing thought that, maybe, Geralt isn’t coming.

Jaskier’s heart tugs itself back from the music it’d been pouring itself into, hiding within the walls of his ribs once more. His fingers fall from the strings, the song too thick with the weight of desperation. A wave of despair consumes him with visions of white hair and snarled words. 

But, maybe—

Maybe Geralt will, at least, walk down the mountain with him. Maybe, then, they can part ways. 

That’s all Jaskier wants— one last journey, one last travel, no matter how short. 

But the flowers bend away from him when he finally stands. There’s a sour taste in the back of his throat as he packs his lute away, a stinging in the back of his eyes as he faces the trail once more. 

Geralt waited for him, once. Jaskier had thought to return the sentiment— waiting, no matter how long he needs.

But, as tears finally build in his eyes and chill his cheeks, he realizes that, maybe, he’s waiting for something that will never come. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!
> 
> I've been writing a ton for the witcher recently, so feel free to check out any of my stuff if you liked this! And, please, leave a comment with what you think!


End file.
